That year, winter gave no warning of its arrival in the Mexican mountains.
It arrived like an ominous whisper, seeping through the cracks in the mud houses. First came the north wind, sharper and more cruel than usual. Then the evenings began to darken strangely, and an ash-colored sky seemed to crush the valley. Forest animals began to behave erratically: coyotes howled too close to the fences, and a silence so heavy it was suffocating in the pine forest.
But no one in the village wanted to pay attention. They were too busy with their daily affairs, the bars, or simple complaints.
No one… except Ximena.
Ximena was only 14. For as long as she could remember, life in the mountains had taught her to read the land. After her mother’s death five years earlier, her father, Don Hilario, had become a man consumed by mezcal and bitterness. His heart hardened like parched earth during a drought. He no longer saw Ximena as his own flesh and blood, but as a burden, another mouth to feed in a house where affection had faded.
“You’re good for nothing, useless girl,” he shouted at her almost daily, throwing his hat on the wooden table.
She didn’t respond. She lowered her eyes, swallowed the lump in her throat, and continued grinding corn. But her mind was ever alert.
In October, Ximena noticed the signs.
The butterflies and migratory birds that always flitted across the sky had disappeared. The stream in the village had slowed dramatically, and its banks were covered with a thick layer of frost at dawn—something unusual at this time of year. Even the burning pine forest smelled different.
Ximena understood, and a shiver ran down her spine. The “Great Frost” was approaching. A brutal winter, the kind my grandparents told me in their horror stories.
He ran toward the town square just as the men gathered in front of the Ejido police station.
“We have to gather as much firewood and corn as we can,” Ximena said in a trembling but firm voice. “This winter won’t be normal. The stream is already freezing. We’ll die if we don’t prepare.”
Laughter erupted immediately. The men, glasses of alcohol in hand, looked at her mockingly.
“That little brat has gone crazy; she’s as much of a witch as her mother,” the village butcher sneered.
